Reincarnated as an Elf Prince

The crimson skyline of the demon city bled into the horizon as Ashwing's wings cut through the air in sharp, deliberate strokes. The wind tore at Lindarion's coat, but beneath it, his fingers rested on the hilt of the newly claimed blade. Its weight was strange, heavier in intent than in steel.

Ashwing dropped low, talons clanging against the black stone of the main gate. A startled guard in jagged armor stumbled forward, spear lowering automatically.

"You can't just—"

The words never finished. Lindarion blurred. His boot slammed into the guard's chest, sending him sprawling back into the wall with a crack of bone and armor. Before the man could crumple, Lindarion was already there, one hand gripping the front of his breastplate, lifting him effortlessly off his feet.

The guard gagged, air wheezing through his teeth.

Lindarion leaned in, voice low, the faint gleam of the sword's black edge visible under his coat.

"Go inside. Tell your saint…" — he let the pause linger until the man's eyes widened — "…that the Prince of a Thousand Blades has come to collect his due."

He released the guard, letting him fall in a heap onto the stone. The man coughed, clutching his ribs, and scrambled toward the gate on all fours, disappearing into the shadowed archway.

Lindarion stayed where he was, head bowed slightly, one hand on the sword's hilt, the other brushing Ashwing's scaled neck. The air around him felt heavier than before, a quiet pressure rolling off him like the stillness before a storm.

The city would know he had returned, and this time, there would be no restraint.

—

The message came quickly, carried in by a wheezing, battered guard who collapsed to one knee before the throne dais of the estate's inner hall.

"My… my lord… at the gate… he says… the Prince of a Thousand Blades…"

The words hung in the air. The servants froze mid-step. The murmurs of armored retainers fell silent.

The Sword Saint slowly rose from his seat. His crimson cloak trailed behind him, brushing over polished obsidian tiles as he descended the steps. His hand rested on the hilt of his long, thin blade a weapon that gleamed like liquid silver in the torchlight.

"Prince of a Thousand Blades?" he repeated softly, his expression unreadable.

The guard nodded quickly, clutching at his ribs. "He… he's the same one from before, my lord."

The Sword Saint paused only for a breath, then turned on his heel and strode toward the main gates. Each step was slow, measured — the way a predator walks toward prey that it knows will not escape.

—

The sound reached him first, not the clang of armor or the shuffle of many boots, but a single, steady rhythm. Footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, echoing in the empty courtyard.

Lindarion's head lifted slightly, his eyes narrowing beneath the hood of his coat. Ashwing shifted beside him, tail curling low, sensing the change in the air.

Then he appeared.

The Sword Saint stepped through the archway as if stepping onto a stage. His crimson cloak caught the faint wind, and the faint gleam of his blade reflected the reddish light of the sky.

Their eyes met, the same icy, unblinking stare from their last battle.

"I thought I had made myself clear," the Sword Saint said, his voice even, cutting through the air like a drawn edge.

"And I thought I'd made myself clear," Lindarion replied, one gloved hand resting casually over the hidden hilt beneath his coat. "I wasn't done."

There was a pause, the kind that felt like the moment before lightning split the earth.

The Sword Saint tilted his head just slightly, his expression giving away nothing. "Then come," he said. "Let us finish what your arrogance began."

—

The courtyard was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that didn't belong in a city, even on the demon continent. Every bystander, guards, servants, onlookers peeking from alleyways, kept their distance. The memory of what Lindarion had done before still lingered like a black stain on the mind.

The Sword Saint walked forward, each step measured. His blade was not drawn yet, but the air seemed to bend around him, the faint distortion of mana so dense it almost shimmered. His eyes didn't leave Lindarion's.

Ashwing shifted his weight beside his master, claws scraping against the cracked stone. Lindarion put a hand up, a small gesture, stay.

"You've grown quiet," the Sword Saint said, stopping just outside striking range. "The last time we met, you spoke of cutting me down. You spoke of vengeance."

"I still do," Lindarion replied, his tone low, controlled, though the faint tremor in his coat from the hidden blade suggested otherwise.

The Sword Saint's gaze flicked down, just for a fraction of a second, to the bulge beneath Lindarion's coat. "That is not the same sword you used before."

"You're observant." Lindarion's voice sharpened. "You'll get to see what it does."

The Sword Saint exhaled slowly, not a sigh, but the controlled release of a warrior centering himself. His hand slid along the hilt of his weapon, the steel whispering as it left its sheath.

And then the stillness shattered.

The Saint moved first. His foot struck the ground, stone cracking beneath the force, and in the next breath, his blade was an arc of silver aimed at Lindarion's neck.

Lindarion's coat flared open as his hand shot to his hilt, Zerathis leaping into the open air, its blackened, almost liquid edge catching the light for an instant before intercepting the strike.

The impact rang like a thunderclap, mana pressure rippling outward in jagged waves that knocked dust and pebbles into the air.

The Sword Saint's eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar resistance. "This… is different."

"Different enough to kill you," Lindarion shot back. He pushed forward, forcing the Saint's blade back half a step.

It wasn't much, but it was more than he'd managed last time.

They broke apart, and the Sword Saint vanished, not literally, but with speed so blistering that to the untrained eye, he'd simply ceased to be there. Lindarion's instincts screamed; he pivoted, slashing Zerathis in a horizontal arc. Sparks erupted as it met steel again, the Saint now at his flank, pressing in hard.

"You've improved," the Saint said calmly, blade grinding against Lindarion's. "But improvement won't save you."

Lindarion's eyes glinted. "It doesn't need to save me. It just needs to kill you first."

Ashwing growled, the deep, rattling sound of a predator waiting for an opening. Above, the sky churned, clouds twisting unnaturally as if the land itself sensed the collision of forces below.

Then, without warning, Lindarion pushed mana into Zerathis. Not much, just enough to let the blade hum with that strange, shadowed aura Ouroboros had left upon it.

The Sword Saint's expression shifted, ever so slightly, as he felt the blade's presence.

"Where did you get that?" the Saint asked.

Lindarion smiled, but it wasn't a friendly smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

And then the second clash came, harder, faster, and with neither side holding back.